


don't wwanna be friends

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Biology, Community: kink_bingo, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, M/M, March Eridan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was his ordinary, craven self, pleading for attention, it was easy to refuse him; like this, when he carries himself with enough pride for an empress, Equius finds him suddenly irresistible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't wwanna be friends

Equius stops outside the closed door. "Ampora," he says, not knocking; nothing in this wretched laboratory is built to withstand his strength. There's no answer. Equius sighs in irritation. He shouldn't have been sent to fetch Eridan for this foolish team meeting in the first place, would never have listened to Vantas's demand that he do so if not for Gamzee corroborating the order ("Don't be harsh, brother, help a motherfucker out"), and thinking about the audacity of a gutterblood like Vantas leading them—"Ampora," he says again, more loudly.

Still no answer. There is a steady thump from inside, as of raucous, uncouth music. Equius's already short temper frays further. The irresponsible wastrel isn't even paying attention to the rest of them and their circumstances.

If he will not come willingly, then Equius will insist. He reaches for the door handle and while he _tries_ to be careful with it, he's angry and this laboratory is poorly built, and the latching mechanism crumples in his hand. No matter. Equius pushes the door open.

And stops almost instantly. The music is loud, its rhythms driving and suggestive. And what the music suggests, Eridan's costume outright invites: he is barely dressed, a tiny scrap of fabric wrapped around his chest and an appallingly short skirt clinging to his narrow hips. The colors are bright enough for a courting display, and in combination with so much bared skin it's practically obscene. He teeters on narrow, high heels, giving him a look of vulnerability that seems deliberately designed to evoke pity.

"Th-this is ludicrous," Equius says. "What is the meaning of this spectacle?"

Eridan turns from his mirror to face Equius down, and oh. Oh. His eyes are lined in black, making the gold that much more intense, and he has painted his lips the same vivid purple as his blood. "Wwhat are you fuckin lookin at?" he demands.

"You look," Equius begins, and then doesn't know how to continue. He's horrified and breathless and flustered, wishing desperately for a towel, wishing he could bring himself to turn away from the _depravity_ of it. "You—"

Eridan's painted lips curve upward in a _smirk_ , so confident it practically bleeds from his every gesture; Equius feels his strength desert him. "You like wwhat you see," Eridan says. It's not a question. "Wwhat are you wwaitin for?"

Equius stares. "You want me to...?"

"Sit," Eridan says, pointing to a cushion on the floor. His rings glitter as he gestures, and he has such poise, such certainty—the contrast with his vulgar dress and speech is overwhelming.

"This is depraved," Equius protests as he sinks to the cushion.

"An' you fuckin lovve it," Eridan says. "So wwatch."

Equius squirms, but he can't argue. The attitude Eridan displays in this lewd costume is uncomfortably compelling. When he was his ordinary, craven self, pleading for attention, it was easy to refuse him; like this, when he carries himself with enough pride for an empress, Equius finds him suddenly irresistible.

And then he begins to move. It seems inadequate to call it dancing, when it's so raw and unbearably sensual. Eridan's shoulders roll, and his hips _gyrate_ , drawing attention to the highblooded elegance of his bone structure and the shocking invitation of his bare skin. Sweat beads and rolls down Equius's face. He mops at it ineffectually with the back of one hand, soaking his glove in the process. The way Eridan moves is hypnotic, and the look on his face is predatory, merciless. He knows exactly how excessive his behavior is, how much he defies propriety. Gamzee's failure to live up to his blood is maddening, but this...this is maddening in an entirely different way. Equius shifts uncomfortably in his makeshift seat.

Eridan looks Equius up and down, smiling a cruel, sharp-fanged smile as his gaze lingers on Equius's lap. "Totally into this fuckin stuff, huh," he says. "Under all that bitchin about the spectrum an bein proper, you wwant it dirty more than anyone."

"I don't," Equius protests, but the words die on his lips as Eridan slinks closer.

"Then wwhat are you so hot an' bothered for?" Eridan sneers. "Hands behind your back, landdwweller."

It's an order. A genuine, unprompted order, from someone above him on the hemospectrum. Equius does as he's told, his throat tight.

Eridan splays his hands across his own hips; his claws are painted, too, alternating between purple and black. He pulls the clinging fabric of his skirt taut, so the length of his bulge is clearly outlined beneath it. "Tell me you wwant me," he says.

"You're ordering me," Equius says. He can't help himself. If Eridan is willing to be properly dominant for once—

"I'm fuckin orderin you," Eridan says. His ankles wobble as he spreads his legs to stand over Equius's lap. "Tell me howw bad you wwant me on top a you."

Equius shudders. His shirt is soaked to his skin. His shorts are both drenched and too tight. "You're exquisite," he says. "Terrible." Eridan's hands drift down over his bare thighs, sliding between them, as though any moment now he'll pull the skirt up and reveal— "I hate you," Equius says reverently. "I hate you for being my superior. I hate you for putting me in my place. I hate you for teasing me, you glorious, horrible monster."

Eridan croons with pleasure, writhing to the beat of the music. "Go on," he says. Equius wants to lean forward and lick the bare flat expanse of his belly, but that seems to be against the rules they're playing by right now. "Beg me to use you."

Equius's face flushes hot, and his heart clenches with fresh admiring hatred. The cruelty of demanding that he debase himself is so much more elegant than simply doing him physical harm. "Please use me, highblood," he says. "Please take your satisfaction from my unworthy flesh." Along with the sharpness of his own sweat, he can detect another scent now, muskier and more briny. Surely with his love for the vulgar Eridan will appreciate it if—"I can s-smell your arousal," Equius says, horrified with himself and harder than he's ever been in his life. "P-please let me service you."

"You can smell it, huh?" Eridan says. "You wwant a taste?"

This should not have gone so far, Equius knows. Why can't he bring himself to resist? The broken door hangs ajar; anyone could come looking for him. Anyone could have heard him begging, could hear the filth Eridan says to him. "Yes," Equius says. "Please, yes."

Eridan slides his hands up under his skirt, pushing it up around his waist to expose the filmy panties he has on underneath. He hooks his thumbs under the band and tugs them down, one slow shimmying motion at a time. His bulge is perfectly shaped and attractively slender, not like Equius's oversized one, and the fabric of his panties is so soaked with his seedflap's fluids that he leaves purple streaks down the insides of his thighs pulling them off.

"You wwanna taste, here," Eridan says. "Havve a fuckin taste." He presses his soaked panties to Equius's lips, and when Equius opens his mouth, Eridan pushes them in. The taste is heady, the humiliation exquisite. Equius squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed by emotion. If only he'd known Eridan could be capable of inspiring such hate!

"Look at you," Eridan says, sinking down into Equius's lap. His hands grip Equius's hipbones, claws pricking through fabric. "Wwhere's your fuckin dignity now?"

Equius whimpers, pushing up toward Eridan as much as he dares. He'd hate for his strength to ruin this now.

Eridan bites the line of his jaw. "Yeah, you still wwanna keep beggin, I see how it is," he says. "Don't you wworry, I'm takin everythin I wwant before I'm done wwith you." He yanks open Equius's shorts and reaches inside, and he laughs when he gets hold of Equius's bulge. "You're an ovvergrowwn freak here too, huh? Howw about if I got you spread? Could I shovve my wwhole hand up there?"

Hate washes through Equius's veins, and he opens his eyes to glare. This is lewdness without purpose, simply for the sake of indulging in it—unless Eridan would actually have the audacity to demand that of him; the idea makes him tremble with fury and want.

"Too bad for you I wwanna get filled this time," Eridan says. He squeezes Equius's bulge almost hard enough to really hurt, squirming down into Equius's lap. "Fuckin hold still."

He pushes himself down with a hungry, demanding roll of his hips, enveloping Equius's bulge in slippery, grasping heat. He hisses, fangs bared; it feels like a tight fit, and he can't be comfortable. He clenches tighter instead of retreating, though, and Equius moans through the sodden fabric in his mouth. Eridan's eyes light with triumph and he pushes himself down further, rocking slowly into a sensual, conquering rhythm that makes good on the promise of his arrogance. He holds Equius by the hair with one hand, none too gently, and curls the other around his own bulge, stroking in time with the motion of his hips.

Equius aches to be filled, too; this is good, better than good, but surely both would be better still. But Eridan hasn't left him the option of asking—of _begging_ —for more. This version of Eridan, atrocious and beautiful, vicious and vulgar and graceful, is everything Equius has ever wanted to loathe.

"You're fuckin lovvin this," Eridan says, pulling Equius's head back by the hair, leaning in to nip at Equius's throat between one sentence and the next. "Alwways wwanted someone to push you around. All that shit about bein dignified wwhen you just wwish one a your betters wwould givve you a good shovve."

The truth of it is almost more than Equius can bear. He struggles to hold still, to keep his strength in check when Eridan taunts him so—when Eridan doesn't _stop_ , hissing unbelievable filth in his smooth, cultured tones, barely stopping for breath when his first, internal climax wracks him and leaves Equius's thighs drenched in his fluids. He keeps talking, biting, licking, demanding more, right up until that last growled command—"Noww fuckin come, you sick wwaste a flesh"—that Equius can't disobey, shuddering with the blinding sensations and the illicit thrill of spilling his genetic material inside Eridan. He barely registers the sensation of Eridan's own second, external climax, but when Eridan lets go of his hair and he can look down, his shirt is splattered with thick purple fluid as well as being soaked with sweat.

This is obscene. Obscene, and unacceptable. Equius removes his hands from behind his back. Eridan glares at him, but it's the sated, lazy glare of someone who is too content to properly hate at the moment.

Equius removes Eridan's soaked undergarments from his mouth. The fabric tears on his teeth, but he assumes Eridan was aware of that risk. "I did have a purpose in coming here," he says. "There is...a meeting. In the central laboratory. The others will be wondering where we are."

"Tch." Eridan rolls his eyes in the general direction of the door. "Like I wwanna go listen to Kar yappin about his plans."

It is a sentiment Equius can sympathize with. "He'll send someone else if we fail to return." He swallows hard. "Probably shortly."

"Yeah, yeah." Eridan uses Equius's shoulders for leverage as he lifts himself up, and for an instant, gratifyingly, he flinches. "Guess you better go clean up."

The idea of braving the halls in this state, even briefly, is mortifying, but Equius expected no greater courtesy. "If this mood strikes you again in the future," he says.

"Maybe I'll come lookin for you," Eridan says, already turning away. He shrugs, and his bare shoulders are a work of art. "Wwe'll see."


End file.
